


Forget Me Not

by tobiyos



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Angst, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Persona 5: The Royal Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27515590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobiyos/pseuds/tobiyos
Summary: “Who cares what your weird teacher said?” he interrupts. The boy’s sharp smile winds wider, his round cheeks eclipsing the corners of his eyes. “What doyouwant?”That’s a question Yusuke doesn’t have an answer to.Apparently, he doesn’t need one, seeing as the brunette just reaches out and takes him by the wrist, dragging Yusuke towards the door of his house.“I like that look on your face,” he says happily. “My name is Goro Akechi."--Yusuke meets Goro Akechi when he is nine years old. He is not the person Yusuke knows when he is seventeen.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kitagawa Yusuke
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64
Collections: Akekita Week





	Forget Me Not

**Author's Note:**

> HOO BOY
> 
> This is, quite possibly, my favorite fic I've ever written. I pulled out the stops for this one. I also wrote it in... a week because I was possessed with the idea and now there are like 7 drafts of one fic on my laptop that are all slightly different. Also, I love childhood friend AUs. I've had this idea roughly written down in my list of things I want to write since I played Royal in like... May. 
> 
> A very VERY late entry for the free day of Akekita week because I am bad at sticking to guidlines. Anyway! Fic time

Yusuke is nine when a new family moves in next door.

It’s a small neighborhood to begin with—Madarame’s atelier carefully buried by the sheer size of Tokyo—and the surrounding buildings are just as poorly managed as the one Yusuke grew up in, all mottled paint and broken fences. Sensei has never minded, always told Yusuke they live humble lives befitting of artists, that money and comfort lead to complacence and art thrives in poverty and poor circumstance.

Yusuke always listens to him with big, bright eyes, his fingers usually wound around a pencil or a paintbrush, frowning at the snickers and jeers of the other students who don’t appreciate the words of a man who’s given up everything to teach them. Who cares if Yusuke doesn’t automatically know what Sensei means—he looks the words up in a dictionary later.

But their neighbors move in noisily to the white building next door, toting boxes and old couches and a handful of squealing children, all of whom Yusuke hears reprimanded at least three times each. He winces in sympathy.

He largely pays the family no attention, too caught up in his work under Madarame and his studies in school, working towards the education Madarame reminds him he tirelessly provides.

Sometimes, though, when Yusuke is daydreaming and staring idly out of a window, his eye will catch on a head of light brown hair, flitting past the doors and over the small wall that separates the properties. He feels oddly drawn to it, even without a face to go alongside.

Once, Yusuke catches the sight of that familiar head of chestnut hair and he darts off to dig through a shelf full of old notebooks and sketch paper the other pupils tend to leave lying around. Eventually, he manages to find a small worn sketchbook with a name scratched out on the inside, the characters barely readable from where they’re cut through with graphite. It belonged to an older student; Yusuke vaguely remembers the girl who left it there, citing a desire to move away from art before she departed from the atelier. He still thinks she was foolish, that anyone who leaves behind their heart on a canvas and just walks away must not be in their right mind.

Slowly, he blocks out a face in abstract shapes, hard edges and sharp corners, all of the features obscured save for the fall of light hair. He wonders if their neighbor’s hair is long, if they’re a boy or a girl. Yusuke is very tall already, a head above the other young people around his age under Madarame’s tutelage, but he wonders if this person is too, or if they’re perhaps just as short as everyone else in Yusuke’s life.

He jumps when someone sits in front of him, one of the older students wearing a flour dusted apron. “What is that?” she asks, tipping the edge of the sketchbook back with a finger. Her name is Aina, Yusuke knows. She’s only been around for a month or so, but she’s taken over as the peacemaker already, her soft voice and gentle disposition easily swaying the rowdier of students from totally assuming power.

“An old sketchbook,” Yusuke says, in a high, weedy voice. “We’ve neighbors now. Did you see?”

Aina shakes her head. “I’ve been busy the past few days.” She pulls a lip between her teeth and glances around distractedly. She’s very small, sitting curled up across from Yusuke on the studio floor, but her voice carries a kind of weight that makes him want to listen very carefully, so he doesn’t miss something important. “Have you seen Natsuhiko lately?”

Yusuke blinks lidded, owlish eyes, and thinks. He stays largely separate from the other pupils as much as he can manage, made nervous in their loud yelling and the careless way they speak of Madarame’s generosity. “I don’t think I have,” he says slowly, gripping the pencil in his hand tight. “Why?”

Aina sighs. She shoots him a smile that looks a little tired, a little sad. “I’m just worried, is all. He’s been… well.” She tries valiantly to smile brighter. “Don’t worry about it. Would you like to help me with dinner?”

Yusuke wouldn’t, but it’s difficult to say no to Aina when she’s one of few people who treat him so kindly. “If you think I’ll be of help,” Yusuke responds, tucking the sketchbook back into one of the shelves and crawling to his feet.

He manages to put the mystery brunette out of his head for some time after that, until he spots him on his way home from school, leaning against the railing backed up against the road. He looks to be around Yusuke’s age, holding a small yellow backpack, knuckles near white from how tightly he’s gripping it, but what really catches Yusuke’s eye is the design on the colored canvas, a bright red costume clad figure, arms crossed heroically across his chest.

Yusuke pads up to the boy and says, quieter than he means to, “What is that?”

The boy jumps, his gaze flitting from the ground to Yusuke. His eyes are striking, Yusuke notices, a bright searing red that almost directly combats the soft color of his hair and the round squish of his face. He’s beautiful the way fair colored dogs are, with an endearing sort of eternal youth.

“What’s what?” the boy asks warily, shifting on his feet.

Yusuke points at his backpack, careful to avoid startling him this time. “The design on your bag. The character has a very bold design.”

The boy’s grip on the handles of the backpack curl tighter. “It’s from Phoenix Ranger Featherman,” he says slowly. He shuffles his feet and drops his head forward, the long edges of his hair falling over his eyes. “Do you… like Phoenix Featherman?”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Yusuke announces. He gets the impulse to lift his hand and bite at his nails, but Sensei has warned him about doing it once before, and Yusuke would like to curb the habit before he becomes a repeat offender. Instead, he laces his fingers in front of him, and glances off down the road. “Is it some kind of novel?”

“It’s a… TV show,” the boy says gently. He tucks some of his hair behind his ear and glances at Yusuke again. “It’s kind of popular. Are you sure you’ve never heard of it before?”

Yusuke shakes his head. “My sensei doesn’t like for us to watch much TV. He says it dulls the senses.”

The boy sniffs, looking away disdainfully. “Well, that’s dumb,” he mutters, and Yusuke bristles on impulse, suddenly cross with how blunt this child is.

“He knows what it takes to mold us into the artists of tomorrow,” Yusuke says, parroting a phrase he’s heard Sensei use countless times. _The artists of tomorrow_. He isn’t studying under Madarame just for the comfort of access to television or anything of the sort—he’s there to change the world.

The boy’s face breaks out into an impish kind of grin, tilted up at the corners and an unreadable sparkle in his eye. It makes Yusuke’s heart beat a bit faster, like he’s been caught out in a lie.

“Do you want to come watch it with me?” the boy asks, rocking back and forth on his feet.

Yusuke frowns. “Sensei said—”

“Who _cares_ what your weird teacher said?” the boy interrupts. His smile winds wider, his round cheeks eclipsing the corners of his eyes. “What do _you_ want?”

That’s a question Yusuke doesn’t have an answer to.

Apparently he doesn’t need one, seeing as the boy just reaches out and takes him by the wrist, pulling him towards the door of his house. “I like that look on your face,” he says happily. “My name is Goro Akechi.”

\--

Yusuke ends up watching Featherman reruns on Goro’s small couch every Friday afternoon when he gets home from school. They do it on Sunday mornings as well, Yusuke sneaking off of the low balcony and into Goro’s window, climbing through to his room so they can sit close to the TV and watch the television almost too quietly for either of them to hear it. They know to be discrete. Goro’s guardians don’t like when he watches TV for too long, and Yusuke would rather not have their reprimands extend to Madarame.

One week, after Yusuke has climbed through Goro’s window and sat at the side of his bed, Goro pulls a small stack of VHS tapes out of his even smaller closet, laying them out across the mattress in a neat row.

“My mom gave these to me,” he explains, adjusting the VHS tapes until they’re almost perfectly side by side. He adds, a little quieter, “They’re all she gave to me.”

Yusuke hums, reaching out to touch the edge of one of the tapes, feeling very much like he’s getting a glimpse into a life he didn’t even know Goro had. Yusuke can see there’s writing on the yellowing labels, a neat kind of affectionate penmanship that levels out as the labels look fresher. “Did she record these herself?”

“Mhm,” Goro nods, climbing up into the bed at Yusuke’s side. Yusuke knows by now that Goro’s body runs hot, and he’s slightly grateful when their shoulders press together and some of Goro’s eternal heat seeps into Yusuke’s skin. He’s always cold now that the temperature outside is starting to tip towards autumn, and Goro’s foster family doesn’t splurge on heating costs. He shivers. Neither does Madarame.

Goro points at the tape furthest on the right. “This is the original Featherman series from when my mother was a kid.” He points at the next. “This is the one from when she was a teenager.” And the next. “And this is… from when she met my father.”

“Do you like your father?” Yusuke asks quietly, watching as Goro lifts one of the tapes up and turns it over in his palm. Goro’s fingers are long and slender, like Yusuke’s, but Yusuke thinks his would be better suited for something like piano, something less messy than art. Yusuke prides himself on his painter’s hands because they’re useful, but Goro’s hands give him a sort of grace Yusuke appreciates nonetheless.

“I don’t know my father,” Goro says. “My mom won’t tell me about him, no matter how much I ask. I don’t even know what he could look like, considering I came out looking just like her. I like to think he’s kind, maybe.”

“That would make sense.” Yusuke says. He pulls his knees tighter into his chest. “You’re very nice.”

“No, I’m not,” Goro says with an eye roll. “I’m a handful, according to my foster parents.” He sets the tape back down with a frustrated sound low in his throat. “Even when I’m not _doing_ anything.

“I don’t know my father either,” Yusuke adds. Goro snaps to look at him, probably surprised by how talkative Yusuke is being. They do spend a majority of their time in silence, watching Featherman, before Yusuke climbs back through the window to avoid getting reprimanded. But listening to Goro talk about his own family is making Yusuke… nostalgic. “My mother died shortly after I was born as well.”

“That’s too bad,” Goro says, sincerely. Yusuke huffs a laugh through his nose. It would be very unlike him to say sorry, after all of that. He turns to face Yusuke fully, his eyes curious. “Did she leave you anything?”

“No,” Yusuke says quietly. “Her death was an accident. She never got time to know to leave something for me in the first place. I still use her supplies, sometimes, if that counts. Sensei says that pain drives the greatest artists, so I shouldn’t shy away from my tragedy.”

Goro frowns at his side. “That’s a bit callous, even for Madarame.”

“I’m not… upset about it.” Yusuke threads his fingers together again, even though his nails are already bitten to rough stubs. He’s still got to work on the habit, anyhow. “It was before I was born. I didn’t even know her.”

Goro hums and nudges him with his shoulder. “Would you like to watch yesterday’s episode of Featherman again?”

Yusuke smiles down at his interlocked fingers. “Yes, please.”

\--

“You paint, right?” Goro asks, stretched on his stomach over the end of his own bed.

Yusuke glances away from the TV at Goro’s face, lit up blue by the glow of the screen in the dark of his room. “I do,” he says, pulling his teeth from his nail with a sharp tug. “Why?”

Goro turns back to the TV with a frown. “I’ve just never seen any of your paintings.”

“I show you my sketches,” Yusuke rationalizes, fingers locking in front of him. “I don’t finish full pieces often.”

Goro’s frown deepens. Suddenly, he pushes himself up on his hands, sitting back with a click of his tongue. “I want to see your paintings. I like the sketches, but they’re not all you want to do, right?”

“I suppose not,” Yusuke mumbles.

He yelps when Goro grabs him by the wrist again, tugging him from Goro’s bed stubbornly. “I want to see them,” he insists.

Yusuke swallows. There’s a sort of unspoken rule within the atelier that no one brings outside people in, unless Sensei has welcomed them himself. Goro is arguably Yusuke’s only friend, but he knows if they go traipsing around in his sensei’s home, that Goro will see the way the other children look at him, and he might realize that Yusuke is as strange as the other students make him out to be.

“I don’t want to,” he mutters, when Goro pulls on his arm again. “Can we go back to watching the episode?”

“ _Why_?” Goro asks again. “I thought art was your livelihood, or whatever. Do you not want to show it to me because you think I don’t _deserve_ it?”

“ _No_ ,” Yusuke snaps, pulling his arm free from Goro’s grasp. It hurts, watching the way Goro’s face falls, crumbling like Yusuke has hit him. He remembers what Sensei said, that he wasn’t to show his art to someone until it meant something to him, until he knew it would strike a chord in the human heart. “It’s not you,” he mumbles, looking at the floor.

At his back, Yusuke hears Red Hawk shout something about the power of friendship, or overcoming evil, but there’s a consistent buzzing in Yusuke’s brain that makes him want to reach out and take Goro’s hand again, pull him back towards the bed so they can get back to watching the show they share.

“Do you hate me?”

“Goro—”

“It’s fine if you do,” Goro rushes out. Yusuke looks up at him and sees Goro trying to put on a brave face, even if Yusuke can see the shine of his tears in the light of the television. “I know I’m pushy. My foster parents tell me all the time—”

“I don’t hate you!” Yusuke interrupts. “I don’t… hate you,” he repeats, quieter. Goro is still staring at him, but there’s less hurt in his eyes, less guarded off apprehension. “I just… here,” he says, fishing into his pocket for the square sheet of paper he keeps hidden away.

Goro takes it in his hands with a frown. “What is this?” he asks.

Yusuke beams. “My _muse_.”

It’s a printed out photo copy of _Sayuri_ , Yusuke’s favorite painting of Madarame’s. He keeps it on him everywhere he goes, for inspiration or comfort or solace. “Look at the expression on her face,” he says, pointing at the woman. “How does it make you feel?”

“Confused,” Goro says, tilting the paper like it will catch the light and reveal something more to him. “…sad.” He adds as an afterthought.

“That’s my favorite painting,” he explains. “The emotions it evokes… the story it tells…” He reaches out and covers one of Goro’s hands with his own. “I don’t want to show you my paintings until they can do for you what the Sayuri did for me.”

Goro is still frowning, but even in the lowlight, Yusuke feels like he can see the gentle flush creeping onto his face.

“Fine,” Goro huffs. Shoving the paper back at Yusuke. “I’ll see it some day.”

Yusuke folds the paper back into his pocket with a grin. Behind him, Blue Swan says something about trusting in others.

\--

“You have beautiful hands,” Yusuke says.

Goro glances up from where he’s doing his homework on the floor of his bedroom, eyes squinted in disbelief. “Are you making fun of me?”

Yusuke tips his head to the side. “Why would I be making fun of you?”

Goro sets his notebook down on the floor and shifts onto his knees, turning so that he can see all of Yusuke clearly. “First,” he says, lifting up one finger, “you just blurted it out like you suddenly remembered it, which is strange. Second,” another finger goes up, “who tells someone they have beautiful hands?”

“It’s true,” Yusuke says, thoroughly confused. He sets his sketchbook down and slides onto the floor next to Goro, reaching over to take one of his smaller hands in Yusuke’s. He presses their palms together for Goro to see, an effort to make him understand what Yusuke views as so pleasing. Against his hands, Goro’s are a bit fuller, less bony than Yusuke’s. They’re not quite as exaggerated as his hands are either, the length of his fingers graceful instead of too long. “Your fingers have a nice shape. They’re also long, which some people find pleasing, and I think they have a nice color to them as well.”

“They’re the color of my skin,” Goro huffs.

Yusuke laces their fingers together without really meaning to, folding his fingers over Goro’s like it’s instinct. “Well, your skin is a very pretty color as well.”

Goro is very quiet for a long moment, and Yusuke glances up and sees the tips of his ears have gone pink slightly, his eyes locked on where their hands are pressed together. “What?” Yusuke asks.

Goro jumps a bit, like he wasn’t expecting the question. “P-people don’t… compliment me often. It’s very hard to believe you.”

“That’s all right,” Yusuke says, lifting Goro’s hand in his and rotating it slowly left and right. Goro’s nails catch the light gently, shining a pale color under the scrutiny of Goro’s bedroom lighting. Slowly, not quite meaning to do it, Yusuke lifts their joined hands and presses a gentle kiss to the arch of Goro’s elegant knuckles.

When he looks up, Goro’s whole face has gone red, his mouth pressed into a very firm line. Yusuke can’t help the laugh that falls out of his mouth, even as Goro wrenches his hand free and smacks Yusuke on the shoulder. “You can’t just do that!” he hisses.

“Sorry,” Yusuke laughs, leaning against Goro’s wall. His smile is pulling at his mouth uncomfortably, probably because he’s not used to the expression, but it feels good, light and carefree against his underused muscles. He finds Goro staring at him when he opens his eyes, lifting a hand to massage gently at his sore cheeks. “What is it?” he asks, voice still colored slightly by his laughter.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh,” Goro says, leaning forward. Yusuke’s mouth snaps shut instantly, afraid Goro is going to tease him for being emotionless the way Madarame’s other pupils do. Instead, Goro just brushes some of Yusuke’s hair out of his face. “It’s nice. I like it.”

Now, Yusuke can feel his face going warm, probably mirroring Goro’s expression from earlier. He frowns when Goro shoots him a toothy smile. “Not so easy being on the other end of the compliment, huh?”

“Be quiet,” Yusuke says, reaching out to smoosh his hand against Goro’s face. “Finish your homework.”

\--

Yusuke is ten when Madarame hits him for the first time.

He’s seen the odd bruise on the student here and there, but they’re all gangly teenagers and preteens in close proximity to one another. There’s bound to be some bumps and scrapes, some crying in the middle of the night for which reason Yusuke can put no name. But when Yusuke mistakenly breaks a very large, very expensive easel, he’s surprised to find himself suddenly scrabbling at the floor, the very hot mark of a hand still burning on his skin. Madarame doesn’t dare hit him again, just stands over Yusuke’s trembling body with his hands curled into angry fists.

On a good day, he misses Aina, bemoans the fact that she moved out the previous spring, but he’s grateful she’s gone when no one tries to stop him as Yusuke bolts from the house and down the street, blindly rushing towards the park pushed against an intersection, as rusty and downtrodden as the rest of the area.

The hand mark on his cheek is about as hot as the angry, bitter feeling in his chest, but Yusuke knows that if he hadn’t made that mistake, Madarame wouldn’t have had to hit him. Madarame doesn’t _want_ to hurt any of his students, not Yusuke, not Aina. He loves them. He _loves_ them.

“Yusuke?”

Yusuke thinks he’s crying or maybe he’s retching, but all his knows is that his world narrows to the creak of the swings as he hunches in on himself, the sand underneath his shoes crunching on the playground as Yusuke sways back and forth. Sensei loves him, has raised him as his own son, he has to go apologize, go make it up to him, go—

“ _Yusuke_.”

There are hands on his face that make Yusuke flinch away so violently he nearly flips off of the back of the swing. It’s Goro, he realizes, peering down at him with concerned eyes. He doesn’t move his hands, the warm tips of his fingers curling along Yusuke’s jawline. “What’s wrong?” He asks.

“It’s nothing,” Yusuke croaks. His hand comes up to his face again, tears pricking at the edge of his eyes. He tries to pull Goro’s hands from his face because he’s handling Yusuke too gently when he’s a stupid, worthless, good for nothing—

“Did something happen?”

“Sensei,” Yusuke whispers, by way of explanation. He cringes, then, because _sensei_ isn’t really the answer, the answer is him, but Goro is nodding and pushing himself back and forth idly on his legs. “Ah.”

“Why are _you_ here?” Yusuke asks, trying not to give in to his wobbling lip. He will not cry. He has no reason to cry. This is all his fault. _Goro needs a haircut_ , Yusuke thinks, trying to focus on something other than the tight feeling in his chest and Goro’s hands on his skin. Goro’s bangs are starting to fall into his eyes when he doesn’t have it pulled back. He still looks elegant though, maybe a bit more feminine leaning if anything. It compliments his large eyes and the bright pink of his bottom lip. If Yusuke was as smart as Goro, or maybe half as beautiful, or maybe if he just wasn’t useless and clumsy—

“I saw you leave,” Goro mumbles, hiding behind the curtain of his hair. “I wanted to see if you were okay.” He finally lets go of Yusuke’s face to take a step back, and Yusuke releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“I’m quite alright,” Yusuke assures, trying for a smile that he can see just makes Goro look more concerned. “I’m just—” his voice cracks embarrassingly, throat closing up as a new wave of hurt crests through him. Sensei _hit_ him. Had hit him and offered nothing by way of apology, no _My mistake, Yusuke_ no _An overreaction, are you all right?_ just a cold slap to his cheek and sensei’s wavering breaths like he was trying to keep himself from doing worse.

“I don’t like Madarame,” Goro says. Yusuke currently doesn’t have the heart to argue with him.

“He’s all I have,” he offers.

Goro is silent for a few moments, long enough for Yusuke to catch his breath. He should go buy Sensei a gift to apologize, or maybe he should just learn to be more careful. Maybe he should move out with Aina, and break his own fingers, one by one.

“Do you want to come watch Featherman?” Goro asks, very quietly.

“ _Yes_ ,” Yusuke sobs, tipping forward to bury his head in the arms on his knees. “I would.”

\--

“I’m moving,” Goro says, sitting with his back to the edge of his bed, wedged between Yusuke’s knees.

Yusuke freezes with his hands tangled in Goro’s hair, still attempting the right the braid he was _trying_ to work through Goro’s now shoulder length brown locks. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“I’m moving,” Goro says again, dropping his head back down to look across the small room instead of up at Yusuke. Yusuke feels like it’s some kind of concession, a surrender for which Yusuke feels ill to acknowledge. “My mother regained custody of me again. I’ll be moving back in with her.”

“Oh,” Yusuke says, dropping his hands from Goro’s hair. He swallows, and realizes his throat feels very dry. “That’s… good, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Goro admits quietly, still not tilting his head back to look at Yusuke. “I’ve lived here for long enough… I mean, I’ve settled into a… routine…” he sighs frustratedly, like the words aren’t coming as easily as they’re meant to. Yusuke realizes his hands are shaking when he laces them together at his stomach.

Goro still isn’t looking at him when he mutters, half angrily, “I’ll miss you.”

Something sharp and painful pierces through Yusuke’s heart like Goro has shot him, his breath coming too fast in his chest. “Goro—”

“Am I allowed that?” he asks, in a broken whisper. “I hate this shithole of a house, and these people who don’t care about me. I hate my fucking school, and all of my teachers, and I miss my mother but Yusuke,” he tips his head back, tears pooling just under his pretty red eyes. “I don’t want to leave you.”

Yusuke never had to find out that his mother had died. He didn’t come home one day and discover her missing, he never had a void to fill where she had once stood. Madarame has always been by his side, and the students that have come and gone mean little to him aside from painted away names on canvases and manga with family names scribbled behind the covers.

Goro has been his neighbor for around two years. Somehow, Yusuke doesn’t remember what life was like without him in it.

“Yusuke?”

“I love you,” Yusuke blurts, leaning forwards to tip Goro’s face back again. Goro’s eyes are wild when they meet his, wide with surprise. His mouth pinches as Yusuke squishes his cheeks together under his hands. He loves Goro’s face, the way he’s so soft and gentle, even if his words are often scathing and he laughs when Yusuke trips over himself. He loves Goro’s hands, and his bedroom, and the VHS tapes they’ve picked through too many times. He loves Goro like the sun loves the horizon, and he hates that he loves him enough that he doesn’t know what to do without him.

Goro reaches his hands up between them and traces his fingertips over Yusuke’s jaw, Yusuke snaping his eyes shut because his tears are burning hot. He’s not allowed to cry. Not now, not when it’s Goro that has to uproot his life and leave all of the comforts of familiarity behind. If Goro has to go then Yusuke will see him off with a smile.

Even so, Goro touches him just as carefully as he always does, guiding Yusuke’s face down, down, until there’s a gentle, fleeting kiss to the corner of Yusuke’s mouth.

Yusuke doesn’t startle, for once, just lets Goro press their lips together for a second or two, and sighs when Goro pulls away, his breath still tingling against Yusuke’s. Yusuke still can’t open his eyes. When did not crying become so _hard_?

“You won’t forget me, will you?” Goro asks gently. Yusuke wants to kiss him again. He wants to open his eyes and see Goro’s eyelashes in the light, he wants to tear down the walls of the bedroom with his hands or make Goro run away with him, or do anything or do everything or do nothing. _You won’t forget me, will you?_

“I won’t.” Yusuke whispers instead. “I couldn’t.”

\--

Yusuke doesn’t see Goro after that. He thinks that’s probably for the best, that there was no wailing and clutching at each other’s clothes as Goro got dragged away someplace Yusuke would never be able to follow. That whole family moves out within the month, and Yusuke glances out of the window for some signs of chestnut hair on impulse, catches himself halfway to the balcony some nights before he remembers there’s nowhere to go anymore. He wonders if, somewhere, Goro glances at his window and waits for a knock that never comes.

\--

Yusuke is eleven when Madarame pulls him aside and congratulates Yusuke on his extraordinary talent. He uses a lot of pretty words, a few thrown in hints to Yusuke’s _genius_ , and offers him the opprotunity to exhibit his works to the world.

Yusuke is elated, and honored, and when he says so, Madarame cuts him off with the caveat. It won’t be his name on the pieces.

There’s a moment, a fraction of a second, where Yusuke is relived. Where he knows that whatever happens, Madarame will protect him the way he always has, will sweep away any worries simply with the presence of his name on Yusuke’s art. But then the fear comes in, the concern that this isn’t right, that art is personal and _sacred_.

He says yes anyway. There wasn’t any other choice.

\--

He’s twelve when the package comes in, bearing his name and aloft on the piles of paper for Madarame alone.

The piles of mail have gotten smaller over the years, with students dropping from Madarame’s home like flies, leaving only a handful of children behind who all walk on eggshells when their sensei is near, afraid to upset him for any reason. Yusuke tries not to bother them, has thrown himself into the art that go into exhibits under a different name. It’s enough, Yusuke thinks, just to see his works displayed where others can appreciate it, even if it is Madarame’s name that falls from observers’ lips.

But he collects the mail and finds a package—dull tan and shaped strangely—and Yusuke realizes halfway through opening it that he should have checked to see the sender, to make sure it wasn’t anything dangerous. It’s hard for a man like Madarame to make enemies, but it isn’t impossible, and Yusuke is lucky he’s the only one home if he’s accidently detonated a bomb.

He flips the package over and freezes when the penned name on the front catches his attention.

 _Goro Akechi_.

Yusuke rips into the package faster than he even thought possible, littering the entrance of the atelier with paper in his haste, but eventually he gets the wrapping off and is faced with a plain, black, VHS tape. He flips it once, twice, and finds the label attached to the side, Goro’s meticulous scrawl making Yusuke’s heart thrum in his chest.

The label reads, _This is the one from when I met you_. Yusuke breaks down at the front door.

Eventually, he convinces one of his teachers to allow him use of one of the CRT televisions she has in her classroom so that he can watch the tape. He doesn’t even mind that she insists he watch it in front of her, because he never thought he’d hear from Goro again.

He puts the tape in the tv with shaking hands and leans back to lace his fingers together at his stomach as it works through processing. He laughs when the theme music starts up, loud and triumphant, a testament to Sunday mornings and empty playgrounds.

Yusuke watches the season in one sitting, and his teacher eventually stops coming with him every time he finds that he’s seeking out the memory of Goro’s hands, his eyes, his face. They’re in the red and gold of Phoenix Featherman, in the black of the VCR, the brown of the classroom floor.

Madarame takes his art but he doesn’t take his inspiration, and Yusuke finds a worn sketchbook on a shelf and bookends it with a familiar face.

\--

Yusuke is fifteen when he learns Aina killed herself two years after she left the atelier. Yusuke is sixteen when he attempts to do the same. Madarame doesn’t let him out of his sight for two weeks after, eyes on Yusuke like he almost lost a treasure to a thief’s sticky fingers, like he’s not willing to let the same mistake happen again. Yusuke buys a CRT television and puts it in the now empty atelier, watches Featherman reruns on the nights when Sensei doesn’t deign to come home. He thinks about breaking his fingers.

He wonders if his mother would be ashamed of him if she could see him now.

\--

Yusuke is seventeen when he meets Goro Akechi for the first time.

Yusuke remembers the Goro from late in his childhood, his gentle, if blunt, way of speaking, the kindness with which he doled out scathing advice and the care with which he held Yusuke as his world shook apart. Yusuke remembers kissing a boy in his bedroom with warm fingers on his face, and he remembers the promise he made before Goro moved.

The Goro Akechi Yusuke meets is not the Goro Akechi he knows. This one is like a fake made in a mold of Goro’s shape, with his face and his voice and some of his mannerisms, but none of that sincerity that led Yusuke to him before. He watches him from a balcony of Shujin Academy, listening to the members of the phantom thieves whisper to each other about his plans and his motivations, and he stares down at the face of a boy he loved and sees a stranger.

And that hurts, strangely. He can hear Goro’s voice, even if it’s smoothed out a bit as he’s aged, but he can see the bright red of his eyes, the light sweep of his hair, and it’s not _right_. He blackmails them into saving Makoto’s sister and joining their team and doesn’t look at Yusuke once.

Goro is a traitor, he learns. Yusuke remembers the way he held him whenever Madarame lost his temper. Goro is going to murder Yusuke’s closest friend. Goro used to cry over season finales of Featherman.

Yusuke is trying desperately to remember a person who doesn’t exist anymore.

\--

“One moment,” Yusuke says, straightening his sleeves after they step out of Mementos. The thieves turn back to look at him, all of their faces surprised he’s spoken out so suddenly.

“What is it?” Akira asks, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“I’d like to speak to Akechi,” he says, without turning to look at him. He doesn’t have to see Goro’s face to know he’s feigning surprise, his prim face twisted imperceptibly. “Alone,” he adds, just because as much as he loves the Phantom Thieves, he knows they have no tact, and this is not a thing that he thinks they would understand.

Akira shoots him a worried glance Yusuke returns simply with a nod. He knows about the plan. He will not make a mistake.

The thieves all wander off with calls to meet up later in the week, breaking into groups as Ryuji, Akira, and Ann go back to Leblanc and Haru and Makoto catch a cab.

There’s a sharp tug on Yusuke’s sleeve. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay alone with _him_?” Futaba asks, her eyes full of concern.

Yusuke nods slowly. “I know what not to say,” he whispers.

Futaba’s forehead creases with her frown. “That’s not what I meant. Don’t let him… do anything to you. Gaslight you, or whatever.”

Inexplicably, a smile winds onto Yusuke’s face. “I’ll try,” he assures.

Futaba moves towards the train station with a wave, and Yusuke takes a very deep breath, before he turns and faces Goro.

“Kitagawa-kun,” Goro says brightly. “This is certainly a surprise.”

“Is it?” Yusuke asks, hands coming together. “I would have thought you’d expect this.”

Goro laughs and it sounds so fake it hurts. Yusuke can’t stop comparing this new person with the Goro he met all those years ago, but he supposes it’s been long enough that he should have expected Goro to change. Yusuke certainly has.

“Well, you never know,” Goro chuckles. His eyes meet Yusuke’s and they look cold, or maybe they just look colder than they used to. “People change.”

Yusuke sighs. There are only a few feet between him and Goro, but it feels like it’s miles on top of miles stretched out like centuries between them. “Are we done pretending we don’t know each other now?”

Goro’s smile hardens a bit, his weight shifting to his other hip. “I didn’t know we were pretending. I _don’t_ know you anymore, Kitagawa-kun, and you certainly don’t know me.”

“That’s a _lie_ ,” Yusuke huffs, arms crossing over his chest. “When we were children—”

“When we were _children_ ,” Goro snaps, “things were _different_. Or were you sneaking around in the metaverse then too? Maybe harboring a wanted criminal?”

Yusuke can feel anger pulling at his chest. He balls up his fists at his side. “What is _wrong_ with you? We used to be friends. You’ve barely spoken a word to me since you joined us—”

Goro’s scoff is cutting. “I didn’t _join_ you. And I don’t owe you anything either. Whatever fantasy you’re holding onto from when we were too young to know what life had in store for us needs to die. As far as I’m concerned, this,” he gestures broadly, “is a working relationship. When I’m done with my job, I have no intention of seeing or speaking to any of you again.”

 _When you murder Akira?_ Dies on Yusuke’s tongue. _When you take the one beacon of hope that came to me since you left_?

“You’re right,” Yusuke growls. “I don’t know you anymore.”

“Good,” Goro hums. “Keep it that way.”

\--

Yusuke comes home the night that Goro Akechi dies and watches a season of Featherman.

 _This is the one from when I met you_.

From start to finish, the whole tape is about twenty hours long, and Yusuke has class the next day, but he doesn’t sleep, and he doesn’t go, because even if Goro was… whoever he was, he was still Yusuke’s friend. Somewhere, deep down, maybe without even remembering, Goro was still the person Yusuke fell in love with.

He clutches at his chest and sobs so hard he’s shaking, texts Futaba for advice without going into specifics, and falls asleep on his floor around noon to the triumphant music of Featherman’s victory over his vanquished foes.

\--

Yusuke spends a week in Maruki’s reality, and when he comes back to himself, he remembers Goro. Maybe Maruki didn’t know, or maybe he didn’t care, but Yusuke can’t remember thinking of Goro the entire time he was living in that strange walking daydream, even as he lived in that house that’s seeped in memories of Goro’s company.

Maybe Maruki thought it would be less painful without the memory. Yusuke knows it’s quite the opposite.

 _Where do you live_ , he texts Goro, because Yusuke has let him slip through his fingers too many times.

 _Why do you need to know?_ Goro texts back. _If this is unrelated to dismantling Maruki’s reality, I want no involvement._

Yusuke huffs steam into the cold air, stood just outside of the Shibuya train station. He can’t stay in that house anymore, not when Madarame praises him day in and day out on his progress. Not when Madarame looks at him and sees a son.

 _I don’t care._ He sends. _Where do you live_?

\--

“What do you want?” Goro snaps, when Yusuke shows up at the door of his apartment, his nose buried in a scarf.

“I wanted to speak to you.” Yusuke says, fingers together in front of him as always. “I wanted to see you.”

Goro chuckles behind his door. “Still playing the childhood friend, Yusuke? Get over yourself. I’m not your little playmate.”

“Do you think that matters to me?” Yusuke spits. “I thought you were dead for a _month_. Maruki—” _Maruki took you from me._ He lets out what he hopes is a calming breath. “I don’t want to come inside. I want you to come with me somewhere.”

Goro eyes him warily, and slams his door shut. Yusuke blinks in surprise, shocked, and lifts a hand to knock again, before the door bangs open to Goro tucking the end of a scarf into the edge of his jacket. “Don’t waste my time,” he snaps, shutting the door. Yusuke tries not to smile.

Goro huffs endlessly as Yusuke leads him to the station, shutting down any attempts Yusuke makes at small talk. It’s fine, Yusuke recognizes. It’s _something_.

They ride the train to Ueno and Yusuke greets the man at the museum, a hand barely lifted before his eyes light up and he says, “Kitagawa-kun! Welcome back.”

“Thank you,” Yusuke intones, reaching back to put a hand on the small of Goro’s back and usher him through the entrance. Goro bristles at the touch but says nothing, and Yusuke delights quietly, leading him through exhibits.

“You dragged me out of my house to take me to a museum?” Goro grits out.

Yusuke shushes him. “It’s not just a museum.”

The walk isn’t long but Yusuke feels like he’s vibrating, like he might shake apart at the seams. Goro is _here_ , and still as warm as Yusuke remembers, relaxing as they walk through hallways and hallways of breathtaking art.

“Here,” Yusuke says, leading Goro up to a roped off painting.

Ke keeps his eyes on Goro as he takes the artwork in, his face going slack for a moment before it snaps into the same neutral expression. “Why did you bring me here,” he says evenly.

“It’s my mother’s painting,” Yusuke says gently. Goro’s eyes snap to his, bright in the golden light of the museum. Yusuke glances at the painting for a moment, taking in the unmarred sight of the baby swaddled in her arms, the deep black of her hair. “I showed it to you once, when we were children.”

“Yes, _Sayuri_ , I remember,” Goro snaps. He crosses his arms over his chest and glances off to the side. “One of Madarame’s many long cons. You said…”

Yusuke nods. “It was my inspiration. This painting is love, to me.”

Goro is silent for a few moments, and Yusuke can’t see his face, but he doesn’t mind, not really. “Your mother painted it?” he asks, quietly. “That isn’t just… some alteration Maruki made?”

Yusuke shakes his head with a smile. “When we stole his treasure,” he starts, reaching out to take Goro by the wrist. Goro doesn’t flinch this time, glancing back at Yusuke. “He admitted some of his more… unsavory actions.” He slides his fingers between Goro’s and glances back at the plaque of his family name on the wall. “He killed my mother.”

Goro stops breathing for one very long moment. And when he looks back, his face is a bit more open, a bit more understanding. “That’s too bad,” he murmurs.

Yusuke laughs quietly. “It is.” He glances back at the Sayuri. “You asked me once, if my mother left anything behind for me when she died. I told you she hadn’t.” Goro nods, as though he remembers. “That wasn’t true. She left me the Sayuri, and in it, the inspiration I needed to follow the life I always wanted to live.” He squeezes Goro’s wrist. “She left me hope. She left me love.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Goro says, slipping his hand from Yusuke’s hold. “Who cares what we talked about as children?”

Yusuke takes a deep breath and turns to face him. “I told you that I’d show you my art, one day. When I found for myself what my mother saw in Sayuri.” He slowly takes Goro’s hands again, and watches as Goro’s eyes dart down to where their palms are clasped together. “I remember you,” he insists. “I love you.”

Goro’s eyes widen, the cool façade shattering for one blisteringly beautiful moment. It’s the Goro Yusuke knows lives just under his skin, hidden away by a lifetime of hurt Yusuke will think he’ll forever be regretful he couldn’t help him through.

Goro takes a deep breath. “I tried to kill—”

“I don’t care.”

“I _did_ kill—”

“I don’t care.”

Goro huffs. “You’re as stubborn as you were when we were children.”

Yusuke smiles. “I know you said I don’t know you anymore, and I know that’s probably true. But I’d like to. Please.”

Goro’s fingers twitch in Yusuke’s hold, but he doesn’t pull back this time, even if he still won’t meet Yusuke’s eyes. “After…” Goro swallows. “After the buisness with Maruki. If you still… I mean… If even then—”

“I will,” Yusuke insists, squeezing Goro’s hands. “I promise.”

His heart feels as warm as Goro’s hands in his chest. “Okay.”

\--

“But in that case…” Ryuji says, voice tight. “What happened with Morgana and Akechi?”

On February fourth, Yusuke sits in a café and remembers that Goro Akechi died. All of that time, between when Maruki slipped them into a new reality, when Goro was ignoring Yusuke’s summons to meet him time after time…

Yusuke swallows. _Oh_. Oh.

 _After the buisness with Maruki_ … Goro had said. Yusuke is a fool.

He walks back to Kosei in a daze, stares down at a contact name and wonders if Goro thought he was doing what was best. If he pulled away because he didn’t want to hurt Yusuke more. Yusuke laughs. He might be making out Goro to be kinder than he is.

 _You’re very clever,_ he texts Goro, and is unsurprised when an unsent message error pops back.

Goro Akechi has died twice now. Yusuke wonders how many other times he can pull it off.

The thieves make their plans, live their lives. They get Akira out of jail and celebrate when he comes back. No one says his name when Leblanc is warm and full, even if there’s an unoccupied seat at the counter they all leave empty. Yusuke welcomes Akira home and does his best to smile.

 _We missed you tonight,_ he texts Goro’s contact. An unsent message error pops back.

\--

Yusuke considers inviting the thieves to his exhibition.

It’s a small affair, _exhibition_ too strong for the small group of unknown critics and bored college students that come pouring in, a crowd he would have been ashamed of under Madarame’s tutelage. As is, he’s delighted no matter the size, because all of the artwork is _his_. His name, his inspiration, his heart.

In the end, he doesn’t ask anyone to come, just because he worries about putting pressure on Akira, Ann, or Ryuji to make the trip, or distracting Haru and Makoto from their university coursework. Futaba still isn’t too great with crowds either, even if she started up at Shujin in the spring.

He wanders through the small crowd in the even smaller space, returning thank you’s to compliments and declining champagne when it comes his way. Even without it, he feels light and bubbly, chatting with the odd individual who goes out of their way to compliment him on some of his works.

Eventually, he leads himself towards the centerpiece of the exhibition, grinning happily at the display of paintings he’s created to showcase his latest creation.

The canvas is large, broken into three pieces and stacked in the pyramid atop each other, lines connected messy and wild to form silhouette after silhouette of sketches of a face he pulled from an old notebook. The whole canvas is a few choice colors, a striking red, a chestnut brown, a deep black and a shining gold. Across the canvasses stretches two hands, bony but not excessively so, reaching up gently to angle down a face with the features blotted out, save for the long sweep of brown hair.

“’ _From when I met you?’_ ” Asks a voice, low at Yusuke’s side. “Well, that’s just blatant plagiarism, isn’t it, Kitagawa-san?”

Yusuke smiles when he turns his head, eyes catching with bright, bright red. “This is a pleasant surprise. You never fail to upset my expectations, do you, Goro?”

Goro shrugs, bundled tight in a coat. Yusuke feels like he should be surprised in some capacity. He’s a little happy he’s not.

“A thief has his tricks,” Goro says, happily shoving his hands into his pockets. “Now, where are my royalties from being your muse?”

“I’ll have them delivered to your gravestone,” Yusuke says pleasantly, laughing when Goro elbows him in the side. He leans over to look Goro in the face, delighted when Goro doesn’t shift back, doesn’t do anything but smile. “Are we back to playing at strangers?”

Goro hums. “I thought we agreed we weren’t pretending?”

“Ah, how could I have forgotten,” Yusuke chuckles. He tilts his head to catch Goro’s eye. “I missed you.”

Goro’s smile doesn’t drop from his face entirely as he steps closer, the fabric of his jacket brushing Yusuke’s. “You grew your hair out,” he says quietly.

“You’ve stopped wearing your gloves,” Yusuke returns.

Goro shrugs again. “I’ve had to ditch The Detective Prince look for the moment. Trying to stay off of the radar is relatively easy when everyone thinks you’re dead, but less so when you were once a TV personality.”

“I can imagine,” Yusuke hums.

He glances down when the back of Goro’s hand brushes his, the now bare skin of his fingers warm when he curls one around Yusuke’s smallest finger. It’s innocent and childlike, and Yusuke holds Goro’s finger back, smiling as the tips of his ears turn pink.

Goro clears his throat and looks back to the painting. “You did always say you liked my hands.”

Yusuke wants to tackle him. Yusuke wants to sweep him up in his arms and never put him down. “Well, that certainly hasn’t changed.”

Goro smiles. “You know,” he says breezily, glancing off somewhere further into the exhibit. “I don’t suppose you’re still banned from watching TV.”

“Not explicitly, no.”

“I don’t live far from here.” Goro catches his eye, and it’s the sun on the horizon, the first breath of air Yusuke has had since that day in Goro’s bedroom, when he was too young to be miserable just yet. He smiles, and Yusuke finds _Sayuri_ —pure, unadulterated affection. “Would you like to watch yesterday’s episode of Featherman with me?”

 _I remember you_ , Yusuke thinks, lacing their hands together fully. _I love you_ , he knows.

“I would,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! It's so wild this came out in a way I liked considering I did very little planning and wrote and edited it in like... 5 days. I didn't, however, work on college applications to write this so if I don't go to college I am fully blaming it on Persona 5. 
> 
> Come say hi on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/tobi_yos) and listen to me talk about whatever persona character of the week I'm obssessed with and Ryuji constantly. Later!


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